


Swing

by Cyrelia_J



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Frottage, Historical, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1941099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/pseuds/Cyrelia_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short period piece between Austria and Germany. Just a small late night encounter in 1944 involving music, tea, and of course Germany getting no work done. Germany/Austria</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing

**Author's Note:**

> Challenged myself for 1001 words of non angst romance. Mission Accomplished :D

“Are you playing that again?” Austria lingers in the doorway, a small china cup of tea balanced neatly on a saucer. Germany sits behind the large desk, reading glasses slipping down on his nose as he types a few more numbers on the Olivetti. He continues to work by the flickering gaslight not looking up while Austria takes a lazy lingering sip of tea standing there watching Germany tense, eyes flickering from one paper to another. He continues to wait for an answer all the while blinking sleepy eyes over the rims of his glasses. He shuffles from one foot to the other as Louis Jordan once again questions “is you is or is you ain’t...” 

Germany ignores him for one more line before looking up with tired irritation. He opens his mouth to speak when Austria interrupts him, eyes glancing off to the side down the dark hallway.

“Is that proper? I thought in English it should be ‘are you not’ or something like that?” He takes another sip watching Germany shifts gears again and settles for leaning against the doorframe with another languid long shuttering of his eyes. “Mmm.” Austria wears a soft smile as his head tilts further to the side as if he might fall asleep against the door. “You really shouldn’t play this so loudly. As badly as we’re losing this miserable war the Führer might decide that even _you’re_ not above being made example of.”

Germany snorts taking off his glasses and allowing himself a moment to sit back in the hard chair. 

“He’s welcome to come in here and turn it off himself then. I’ll listen to whatever I please in my own house.” Austria considers that as he raises the cup again with an indulgent slurping sound. 

“You should play something we can dance to. Why don’t you play something of Charlie’s?” Germany crosses his arms and looks with a raised eyebrow.

“Surely you can’t mean to listen to that nonsense?”

“It has a good beat.” Austria takes that as his cue to take a few steps into the room, bare feet padding softly across the waxed hardwood. “Templin is a master of arrangement even if the Minister’s lyrics aren’t perhaps all they could be.”

“The Minister couldn’t pen his way out of a paper sack.” Germany’s mouth twitches into the tiniest smile as he delivers the retort. Austria sets the saucer down on the corner of the desk letting his fingers playfully dance over the surface as he walks around.

“I found this year’s birthday speech to be quite compelling myself.” Austria gives a faint questioning look as each step brings him closer to where Germany sits. In response, Germany turns his chair- the legs making a hard clack as he does- watching the loose long pajamas, watching Austria’s right hand steal up to slowly unbutton the black cotton top. Austria doesn’t take his eyes off of him as he lets a small sliver of pink dart from between his lips to taste the remnants of far too watery tea. “I’ve never known a man more skilled at building up the rotting disease into the miracle cure.”

“I have work to do,” Germany says when Austria reaches the third button. He looks up as the shadows shift, Austria’s pale face illuminated like a ghost. Austria undoes the forth button and then the fifth. He lets the top fall open, stepping between Germany’s spread legs.

“As do I.” That smile turns from playful to sinful and he waits the long count for Germany to flex his hands with the unconscious naiveté of a man who has not in fact bedded Austria more times than there are seeds on a bright ripe strawberry.

Austria dances his fingers slowly over Germany’s careful coif letting them lightly tickle the nape of his neck, each tender tap a violin lead in until Germany is played to splaying his palms on Austria’s hips. He gives a squeeze, gives a slight tug forward and with the grace of a dancer Austria steps one long leg over Germany’s and then the other until he straddles him with a savvy saddle squeeze. Germany breathes in deeply prepared to take a deep dive beneath the deceptively calm tidal pool. He whispers something- neither of them are sure what- as Austria squeezes his thighs together again with a soft hitch in his breath, pressing hips forward, tipping, tilting his head as if they might kiss. He stops short a few centimeters hand turning to cradle Germany’s head as if he may well devour him- but he doesn’t. He slows down his breathing to long slowly deep breaths until he can feel the rise and fall of both their chests. in tandem.

Austria rocks forward again, his lap, his ass meeting hard muscle, hard clutching fingers, hard cock buried under far too many layers of fabric and he just takes another steady steady inhale through teeth starting to clench as the song dies down to the skipping of a needle. His heart beats twice for each click in the echoing room and he thinks that he can feel with some heightened supersensory sensation the feel of Germany’s thumbs pulsing as they move from hips to ass squeezing with beautiful bruising intensity. Austria feels every clutch, every undulation beneath, every tightening of stomach muscles urging his mouth closer and he feels breaths on his face, hot, glasses fogging with each grinding motion. He comes that much closer until their noses incidentally eskimo kiss with far more tenderness than the frantic frottage of their rutting bodies. Breathing, panting, cloth rubbing, the room a hollow chamber of sibilant desperation, Austria’s curling finger’s into Germany’s hair, his other hand moving down to a shoulder, to insinuate itself between the both of them unsure of whether to rip shirt buttons or undo the belt of Germany’s pants.

“You know they’re listening,” Germany says at last against Austria’s mouth. That hand decides to go for the belt after all.

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song mentioned is the awesome "Is you is or is you Ain't My Baby" by Louis Jordan.
> 
> The band Austria refers to is Charlie and his Orchestra as wiki succinctly sums it up a Nazi propaganda swing band. The minister they both refer to is Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister.


End file.
